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Ken Pepiton Apr 2020
at each juncture there has been this choice,

at each, I made a guess, right or wrong,

leave a mark, breadcrumbs work here,

we, me and thee, thou und Ich.

We have sector Bravo in the realm of or and if with optional whens and thens,

leading to now at any given point,
on a wave,
in the grand skein, not scheme, of

things, plain ol' ano-nomenal imaginary players who play by
rules, we imagined we will be
determined to bind into
a line anchor
and allusion to
string theory can work from here up,
we've been weaving options to unbelivable lies with single strand
single use spider wings, believed to be electro magic-ish
by the rule
we

made up. And that was the tic. We made up rules,
and survived.

Opposition to tyranny is obediance to God. Jefferson's,

under whom we stand nationally alliegiant, globally benes wise,
we owe earth our pledges,
those agreements, when you know what the ideas cost,
the idea in alliances for safety, with

treason to be the cost of rearing a child,
who witnessed the naked Noah
reflected in the window
of the U.N.

oh, we are tangled in religion as defined by priests.

Lest us slip the sureely slippery bands of earth and touch the masked
face of God, who winks.

Hiyo, silver, away... time slips are a benefit of fifty years of

seconds guessed worth noting as wonderful, Kodak Moments or Ahas,

here, one of those buys you days and days of retelling the same story,

until today. When we both got here at the same time. A-team meme.

And a wink from the programmer who bet it would loop.

See, as the Joker said to the Thief, in Boston, there must be
some kinder way outa here.
Enjoying the hellopoetry out of the moment
S-așterne arama în valuri
Pe vatra codrilor goi,
În toamna plină de daruri
Și regrete mai apoi.

Cad frunzele goale
În vreme de vânt și nor.
La nimeni nu-i va fi jale
De sărmanele când mor.

S-agață-n plutire de ramuri,
Se pierd vlăguite-n zadar.
Se sting veștejite-n vaduri,
Lovite de vântul amar.

În freamătul fără de șoapte,
Se sting umbrele lor.
Dar nimeni cernit n-o să poarte
La nimeni nu-i va fi dor.

Țesătoru’-și strânge pânza,
În febra verii, răstimp s-a spetit
Pentru ea, ce-nvie frunza,
Veșmântul tăcerii a pregătit.

Nostalgii, tristeți te cuprind
Iarna-și așterne uvertura
Bruma răpune florile, privind
Sărutul morții farmecă natura.

Când verdele iarăși răsare
Și muguri se-nalță-n nămeți
Pieri-va-o toamna în zare,
Cu amintiri, dureri, tristeți.

— The End —